


Ain't gonna drown in the water

by meabhair



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Canon-Typical Violence, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Depression, Family Secrets, First Time, Gothic, M/M, Q manages to put foot in mouth but narrowly misses his knee, Slow Build, Spies keeping secrets, bad coping methods don't try this at home, you'd be surprised by how often that happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5976385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meabhair/pseuds/meabhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Skyfall and the destruction of his home, Bond receives a message from his one of the last living links to his home, Kincaide - a message, and letters from Bond's late mother. Bond has to travel back, not alone, but what is the secret his mother took with her to her grave, and why does the past always come back to bugger things up for Bond when he least expects them to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. James

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madder_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madder_rose/gifts).



> Additional warnings in end notes, tags may be updated as this progresses. 
> 
> Thanks to madder_rose for betaing and the summary, any remaining mistakes are mine.

The couch James sat on was comfortable under its sheet, but the smell of dust in the room bothered him. The only light was from a stark standing lamp, the lone bulb harsh in the evening light.  In one hand he weighed an old fashioned filled with amber liquid and one large ice cube. The other curled loosely 'round the heavy envelope that had managed to find it’s way to him courtesy of Kincaid.

 

He watched as the changing light threw shadows around the room, time crawling by as he weighed his options. Something told him that the information in his hand would have major repercussions.  In the last eighteen months, he’d been through too many events with backlashes.  The ache on his shoulder reminded James of the fact, complaining in the cool flat. As ever, when it did it brought his M to mind.  The relationship that James and M had shared had been rocky, uneven, unequal, exhilarating and amusing, and in many ways his bedrock. He felt unmoored, directionless without her.

 

Tipping the glass back and forth gave the liquid a ripple that soothed the tattered edges of his soul.  If it wasn’t for the funeral, James would be on the _Spirit_ , even if it was just to check her rigging, inspect the sails for any tears or check the engine. Perhaps he could persuade Alec to accompany him for a short hop around the coast, if the weather held up. Despite Alec’s usual vocal protests about boats, he was usually very quick to invite himself along on any outings of James’ yacht.

 

Looking at his other hand, James felt the weight of duty.  He’d given his allegiance to M many years ago, as if she had stood as a personification of the country he served. For years, he’d just thought of himself as broken, with an empty space inside.  Spending time in the Royal Navy, before he went for the SBS, had been the closest he could remember to filling that empty space.  He’d walked away from his ties to the austere beauty of the highlands and exchanged it for the mercurial beauty of the sea. The sea, which teased and tempted, sang to him and scorned him, still seemed to own a part of his yearning soul.

 

The memory of the impact of the bullet was muted, nearly as if he was watching it from outside, not feeling how it punched through the skin and bone of his shoulder. It didn’t hurt, not really, his body not yet understanding the extent of the damage. The impact with the water, however, _that_ had hurt. James wasn’t surprised he’d survived the shot itself, but the fall from the viaduct, the impact on the hard water, the immersion, that should have killed him three times over.

 

It didn’t.

 

Oh, that was not to say it was all bad, after the impact and once he was in the water it was peaceful. The bubbles wove around him, pretty as they reflected the lights up and around.  The dark, flittering shapes of startled fish broke the rays of light that fell through the water.  James had relaxed, which surprised him.  It was the first time that the numbness had cushioned him, wrapped his reactions up and dulled them into a dull throb. It was clear, weightless and cloying, gathering him close to the depths. His lungs hadn’t hurt, not after they seized around the first inhale of harsh water, the inhale that he thought would be his last.

 

The main impression he had was one of peace.  It was something he’d never had much of.  If he’d given it any thought, he wouldn’t have thought he’d wanted to go out that way, not after Ves… Venice. James was self aware enough to know that he had given it more thought than he’d want to admit.  Pulling his train of thought away from that track was an effort.  He eyed up the envelope again and decided to risk it. Whatever fresh hell it was going to bring his way, at least he wouldn’t be brooding in the dark about the lost women in his life.

 

Draining his glass fast and placing it by his feet, overriding his usual reluctance to pay so little heed to a fine measure of whiskey, allowed him to hold the large envelope with both hands. He tapped at the old fashioned thing, with it’s heavy brown paper and lid held closed with cord wrapped around the circular fastenings. James hadn’t seen something like this since last time he’d snooped around MI6’s older records to dig up something on his M. Distantly, he felt something like amusement flare up - the thought that Kincade had old fashioned document envelopes in his kitchen odds and ends drawer just absurd enough to put a hairline crack in his bleak mood.

 

The paper that slid out was embossed with irregular markings of the collection of small objects wrapped tidily in an embroidered handkerchief. James balanced the envelope and letter on the arm of his chair to try pick apart Kincade’s granny knot, feeling as if he had giant’s fingers as he worked at the thin twine.  The task was fiddly but James didn’t have the motivation to get up to find a knife to cut the twine.  Finally, the little package fell open, each folded layer revealing an individual treasure: a bracelet of terriers that his mother had loved and his father despaired of, a single turquoise and silver earring, and finally a pretty stopper from a long gone perfume bottle.

 

For a moment, James could smell the scent that wrapped his mother before she went on evenings with his father.  The delicate roses and violets over woody tones would sweep close enough to hug as she kissed his forehead before she would nearly dance to the door and to the night. For some reason, he could remember her favourite colour dresses, how she scandalised Kincade’s wife by going barefoot whenever she could, the softness of her hair, her blunt nails as she cleaned the cuts on his knee, but he couldn’t remember her face.  As gently as he could, suddenly aware of his callused hands, James laid the little treasure trove on the cushion beside him.

 

James fancied for a moment that the weight of his regard might crush the little trinkets, but they survived.  He’d never have pegged himself as being sentimental, but, oh, his chest ached a little as he looked at the unexpected gift. _So much for not thinking of lost women,_ James thought before reaching back to the letter to begin to read.  Kincade’s economical penmanship reflected his speech, straightforward and crisp.  It outlined how he had come across some items and papers belonging to his mother, that he was returning them to James as keepsakes and that James should not get too cocky as Kincade could still outshoot him with ‘a proper rifle’.  For the first time in the evening, perhaps for a week or more, a genuine smile pulled at James’ lips.

 

It felt uncomfortable, as if it was not deserved.

 

James shuffled through the rest of the papers, the dry rustle loud in the apartment.  The old fashioned type and print was elegant in it’s own way, with more character than the soulless computerised printouts of today’s correspondence.  For the third time in the evening, James felt the lick of amusement as he pictured Q in his lair in R&D shuddering as if someone walked over his grave, that someone affiliated with his workplace would dare to cast aspersions upon his computers.  

 

The idea warmed something deep within as James began to put the papers in order before something caught his eye.  There was something not quite right.  It took a few minutes, but finally he caught it.  James held the paper up to the light for a closer look before turning the lamp off and sinking back further into the cushions, placing the rustling papers down before taking back the objects.  Perhaps it was nothing, but, perhaps it was something.  

  
Glancing at the envelope, he contemplated his options.  He’d known that it was likely to bring him trouble, but perhaps it was the best thing for him.  The bracelet, earring and stopper gradually warmed where they sat cupped in the palm of his hand.   James watched the sky change as the night wore on, alone in the dark as he traced the edges of his treasure with the tip of his trigger finger and waited for the morning to come.


	2. Q

Q glanced around the pub.  It was traditional style with low lighting, deep red furnishings and heavy wood furnishings. The walls were covered with prints of racehorses and framed rugby shirts, all from perhaps thirty years ago. It was unlikely that the place had been refurbished, other than the odd lick of paint, in Q’s lifetime.  Conversations ebbed and flowed around the booth he was saving.  The Guinness in front of him was still settling, so he fidgeted with a spare cardboard coaster. Q sighed to himself, the only reason he didn’t like the place was that the low light made it hard for him to spot anyone.

 

Just as he was beginning to feel that he had been stood up due to work commitments, Eve strode through the crowd.  Even wrapped in the heavy winter coat, she stood out among the clientèle like a Thoroughbred amongst Clydesdales.  

 

“Why do you always pick the old-man pub, love? I’d think you’d fit right into the hipster crowd,” Eve teased as she swung her coat over the back of a chair and blew him an air kiss before sinking happily into the seat with her frankly miniscule bag on her lap. Q wasn’t sure how she managed to fit her mobile in the thing, nor where she managed to stash the gun she had to be carrying. 

 

“Now, that’s just being rude,” said Q, “But because I’m a gentleman I’ve still gotten you a round.”

 

Q pushed the vodka and sprite across the small table to her.

 

“There’s a reason you’re my favourite,” Eve took a healthy sip from the glass before saluting him with it.

 

“Silly me, I thought that was because I’ve kept the sales agents out of your hair for the last few weeks.”

 

“Well, that too! Though, with our resident enfant terrible still on leave, that’s probably easy enough.” Eve grinned over at him, “But I hear that may be changing soon.”

 

The retort that was lining up on Q’s tongue died. 

 

“I thought he was still on bereavement leave,” and Q hated that they had to double speak around any work related topic, “Not due back for a while yet.” 

 

Eve gave him a bright smile that never boded well. The sip she took from her glass also screamed that there was another agenda for tonight, instead of their usual slow pint-and-gossip session. Worse again, she was scanning the gathering crowd for a familiar face.  Now, Q was no field agent, but putting all of that together suggested something.  He leaned one elbow on the table, glad he’d managed to snag one of the few stable ones in the pub. While sinking his forehead into the palm of his hand may have been a bit dramatic, Q felt entitled to it. 

 

“Wait, don’t tell me…”

 

“Evening, Miss Moneypenny, Q.”

 

“Bond, I’d say it’s a pleasure…” Q trailed off, unable to continue with the usual barbed banter that he shared with his agent.  The man looked shaken.  Not that any of the crowd could tell, they would only see a sharply dressed man removing his herringbone overcoat to show off a classic windowpane suit. The difference was around his eyes, even in front of the Turner Bond had looked more sure of himself, and in the details of a tie that was ever so slightly off, cufflinks skewed off centre. Just as tellingly, he let Q’s verbal lapse pass by. Q cleared his throat.

 

“Well. My shout, what would you like?”

 

Bond smiled woodenly as he sat. 

  
“If you’re sure, whiskey, whatever they have.”

 

Q slid out of the booth, exchanging startled glances with Eve.  From what Q had seen, Bond was a picky drinker… and eater,  _ and  _ dresser to be fair. This lack of interest just seemed, well, out of character for him. He returned with a tumbler full of what he’d been assured was a passable whiskey and a tall glass with some ice to find Eve and James talking about changes in documentation for accounts.  Bond looked at both before taking the tumbler, tipping it towards Q in thanks, and taking a heavy slug.  

  
Slowly, the ice melted, neglected as the conversation ground on in fits and starts. It wasn’t uncomfortable, Q felt, but more as if he was missing something heavy that was draped around the agent’s shoulders. Eve’s bright banter and Q’s own dry wit drove the conversation as much as they could, nearly a parody of normal people on a normal evening out. 

 

Draining his glass, Bond gestured to the table in a slight ‘same again’ gesture before standing and making his way to the busy bar.  Q took advantage of the louder crowd and leaned over to hiss at Eve.

 

“What the hell?”

 

“Sorry, I thought I’d be here earlier to explain. Tanner ‘suggested’ to Bond that he come along,” Eve replied in a low tone, “He pointed out that Bond’d been off for the last few weeks, that it might be good for him.  And, I think he was right.”

 

Q wrinkled his nose at her, but couldn’t deny it.  The agent was lacking something.  Q hadn’t known the man too long, but even when he was thrashed after the Skyfall debacle, there had been something larger than life about him. That something seemed to have gone missing lately. 

 

“Also, medical and psych are insisting on keeping him in the office until he re-qualifies.”

 

“Well, I would imagine that’s just aggravating.”

 

“It is, rather.  Vodka and sprite for the terrifying lady, Guinness for the astute gentleman.” Bond suited actions to words, expertly serving the drinks, “But it gives me enough time to catch up on my reading.”

 

Q flailed, to Eve’s amusement. Finally, for the first time since he’d arrived, Bond seemed to have a spark of mischief in his eyes. It didn’t last long before it was swamped whatever stillness that was plaguing him, but it gave Q some hope that whatever was broken was fixable. Though, it wouldn’t surprise him that Bond was even harder and more abrasive on himself than the equipment that he abused in the field. 

 

Buying himself some time by pulling an offended face and sniffing at Eve’s amusement, Q’s mind raced. While usually Q had no problem letting other people he dealt with work out their own concerns unless they specifically asked for assistance, as the head of the Technical Support Service, he was Bond’s superior and had a duty of care for him. It was time to earn his paycheck.  Even if it meant making small talk with one of the most confusing people he knew.  Sometimes, Q  _ really  _ resented his promotion. 

 

“So, uh, James,” Q really, really hoped that he would someday manage to get a double 0’s name out without the pause that made him sound like a nervous schoolboy, “What sort of book are you reading? Any recommendations? That you would… recommend? ”

 

Q truly wished that he was the only one that noticed how his voice had risen with stress at the end of that babble, but from Eve’s wince it was not a wish that was granted.

 

“Or, is it a book? You didn’t say… Maybe something with pictures to distract you from the articles,” Q mentally revisited that last sentence and winced, it did  _ not  _ sound good. “I mean, not to imply that… Eve?”

 

Eve was watching as Q was managing to put his foot into his mouth nearly to the knee. It was worse than that time in sixth form when he’d gotten tongue tied in front of Harry-of-the-rugby-broad-shoulders.  Eve looked as if she couldn’t decide to laugh or cry at his babbling, and Q couldn’t help but hunch his shoulders slightly in shame.  He was supposed to be making this easier, not more awkward.  They both looked at Bond, who seemed to be trying to use his new whiskey glass to give him answers and seemed to be oblivious to the subtext flowing round him.  A truly bad sign in a field agent, let alone a 00.  


 

“Recommendations? Hmm. There was one I read recently, by Nicolson, talked about the immediate aftermath, people coming home after the Great War,” Bond paused for a long moment, and Q leaned forward to try catch the words when they started again, with a raspy tone, “People come back, how things were different.  Did you know, there was only three nurses to every million people? Sculptures making busts for plastic surgeons to use to make men look like men again.  Soldiers who went came back from victory to find everything changed. Their own brave, new world.” 

 

Well.  That was rather a conversation sinker, wasn’t it? There was a reason that Q hated small talk - it didn’t follow set rules that one could extrapolate the outcomes. 

 

Bond looked up from contemplating the amber liquid and quirked a smile at the expressions before him.  Q could see Eve’s face, struggling to keep a bland exterior, but the shock of the sudden insight into Bond’s mind was clear in the raised eyebrows and slightly open mouth. Q’s face was probably quite the picture also, but at least he hadn’t paused mid sip like Eve had. 

 

“Also, some of my parents correspondence.”

 

Eve met Q’s eyes, his panic at this sudden, startling vulnerability in the institutional legend reflected right back at him. Q widened his eyes at her, he was crap at interpersonal relations as his team of minions could well attest to.  Eve used her eyebrows to semaphore back, no, nope, not a chance, there was a reason she had picked becoming a field agent when she started her career and not become a councillor. Q squinted his rebuttal: he’d used his skills at small talk up with the book question, and look where that had gotten them. Eve wrinkled her nose at him. 

 

It was Bond who broke the moment, by snickering.

 

Eve and Q were reunited, both glaring at the irritating man. 

 

“I feel I should have gotten popcorn.  Wimbledon hasn’t a patch on this.” 

 

Q took a fortifying sip of his pint.  Then a second one. 

 

“Well, James, if you think taking popcorn to a tennis match is acceptable behaviour, it really would explain an awful lot about your dreadful attempts at blending in on your sales trips.”  Bond acknowledged the barb with a slight quirk of his eyebrow and Q continued, “But, I have to admit, I didn’t think you had any correspondence after the… clear out.”

 

Bond regarded first Q, then Eve, as if he was weighing their very souls with his piercing gaze. He nodded to himself, before pulling his over-coat close again. 

 

“To be fair, I didn’t think so either,” he finally said, “But I got some unexpected post recently.  Turns out my mother was a bit scattered with her paperwork. Kincade came across some things in storage and sent them along.”

 

“Ah, well. You didn’t lick that habit off a stone, then.” Eve chipped in, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of your paperwork being in on time.”

 

Bond acknowledged the observation before withdrawing an old fashioned document holder out of his coat.  Q could feel his fingers itch to pull it closer.  It was no surprise that he had ended up in the secret service, he had the curiosity of ten toddlers.  

 

“If I could ask a favour?” Bond looked up at them, steely resolve and a vulnerable expression blending seamlessly, and damn the man for looking so fragile in the low light of the pub.

  
Q nodded and he could feel Eve lean closer to hear. His promising career in espionage may well be under threat again, but at least this time he’d be able to fortify himself with the rest of his pint. Q sipped his drink and listened to Bond talk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, James is (slowly) reading The Great Silence 1918-1920 by Juliet Nicolson - as recommended by Madder_rose during a flailing session I was having.

**Author's Note:**

> This story starts with James in a fairly depressed state of mind, and he has some thoughts which may be considered to be suicidal ideation. He is also using canon typical maladaptive coping mechanisms (alcohol and avoidance) to deal with his head space. This is probably going to be a reoccurring theme through the story, so please be cautious of your own head space if these may trigger you. 
> 
> Full disclosure: this is fairly well planned out, but not completed. It is also a method of procrastination, as I have a ridiculous amount of course work I should be dealing with which (should be) taking priority, so I can't promise the same posting schedule as my last fic. That said, I hope you enjoy.


End file.
